Glass Walls
by Cora Clavia
Summary: Elizabeth falls seriously ill, with no apparent cure.  The doctors race to find a way to stop her decline, while John is forced to stand aside and watch her fade.  Shweir.
1. Chapter 1

**Glass Walls**

**Summary: ** Elizabeth becomes seriously ill, with no apparent cure. Shweir.  
**Spoilers:** Pretty much nothing. Set any time, as long as John's a colonel.**  
Rating:** T, a little language.  
**Disclaimer:** I made it up, it's not real, and I'm not making money off it.

End overture; open curtains and cue entrance music.

**Chapter 1**

"What the hell's going on?" John demanded, hobbling into the infirmary.

He had received an urgent message; Dr. Weir was unwell, so would he please report to the infirmary ASAP. He'd been outside the city for most of the past few days with his team, which had unfortunately resulted in a badly cut-up arm and seriously twisted ankle, and now meant that they were off-world without him (and that made him just a little grouchy). He hadn't seen Elizabeth in a few days, due to the quick re-departure through the Gate before getting hurt, and she had seemed fine then, though a little tired.

"Cheerful as ever, Colonel," Beckett grinned. "How's the leg?"

John shrugged. "Been worse. What's up?"

"It's Elizabeth. She won't admit she's sick." Carson led him back to one of the rooms, where John found her sitting on the edge of her bed, impatiently looking for an escape. On seeing Carson with John, she rolled her eyes.

"Doctor, is this really necessary?" she sighed, hand at her lips to cover a deep, raspy cough. She seemed more tired than usual, John noticed immediately; her face was pale and drawn, and she had to settle a hand on her chest to breathe after coughing. "It's just - a cold, or flu, or -"

She was overtaken by another fit of coughing, and John took the opportunity to confer with the doctor. "What's the deal?"

"One of the security detail found her passed out at her desk yesterday, and we kept her here overnight. She's only gotten worse. And now two of my staff are complaining of similar symptoms."

"So what are you thinking?"

Carson pursed his lips. "Well, I know it's a long shot, but you were on Skalvi together last week. Have you felt any adverse side effects? Did you notice anything out of the ordinary, or did anyone else on the team complain?"

John shook his head. "Nope. Everyone seemed fine. And I spent three more days with the others after that. None of them are sick. Rodney's hypochondria is still pretty active, but other than that, nothing."

Carson snorted. "Of course. Well, it's not flu or pneumonia. Hopefully her bloodwork will give us some answers."

"Good." John nodded. "Let me know what happens. I'll come by later."

**XXXXX**

"They're worse. All three." Carson sighed, running an exasperated hand through his hair.

"How bad is it?"

"Colonel, I don't have a choice. I'm going to have to isolate all of them."

John stared at him. "Quarantine?"

"Yes."

"It's that bad?"

"At this point, I can't afford to risk it spreading any further. The medical staff don't seem to be as bad, but even so I have to consider Doctor Weir as contagious with an unknown malady."

**XXXXX**

Elizabeth looked at her hands, thinking. She was always thinking. "Quarantine. So it's contagious but they don't know how to cure it."

There was no way to sugar-coat it. She was too damn smart. "Yes."

"He's right. It's the safest option."

Her voice was even, face impassive, but Elizabeth never just gave up like this. Her cheeks had lost more color, though she claimed to be feeling a little better.

"Do you want me to do anything?"

She shook her head, eyes closed. "You're still off-duty for injury. The temporary administrator's running everything. I don't think there's anything else to worry about."

"Okay." He chose to let it go. Elizabeth never took well to being fussed over. "The medical team are searching the database. If this bug is in there, they'll find it. Have you back on your feet in no time."

"Let's hope so," she replied, offering him a fair attempt at a smile.

The nurses were coming in to move her to the quarantine room, so John obligingly let them steer him out before he headed back to his stack of unfinished mission reports. At least work would offer him a few hours to try and ignore the nagging worry growing in the back of his mind.

**XXXXX**

She sat on her bed, looking around quietly. The sickroom was small and tidy and clean, the walls a gentle jade green, and the single window showed a peaceful view of the ocean. And instead of a solid wall, or creepy iron door, there was simply a force field, offering the doctors ease in observing a patient. While the scrub room separating her from the actual outside was a sober reminder of the pounding in her head and ache in her chest, it wasn't as bad as it could have been. She didn't feel enclosed.

In spite of the grim reality of the situation - she was seriously ill and they didn't know how to cure her - she relaxed for a moment. This room was meant to calm and soothe. She had the finest doctors in the world working diligently. They would find something. They always did.

But she _hated_ having to sit around and wait. And the damn force field - it was invisible, but she knew it was there, and something about it was off-putting.

**XXXXX**

"Doctor Beckett? I think I've got something. The database recounts an episode with a sickness on Skalvi."

"That's the world they visited last week," Carson muttered. "How'd we miss this?"

"Because it doesn't list the treatment. They didn't know what happened," the researcher explained. "The local population were suffering from some mysterious illness. When the Ancients first visited them, they weren't affected, so they set up a hospital to try and cure the Skalvii."

"What happened?"

"That's the strange part. The illness just left. The Ancients couldn't explain why, because none of their experimental treatments could account for it, but all the Skalvii recovered. They were never able to explain it."

Beckett's heart sank as he dropped into his chair. "Which means we still don't know what to do."

The researcher fell silent. Carson took a deep breath. "Well, it's something. Cross-check the database, see what kind of treatments they tried. It might still help."

"Yes, Doctor."

**XXXXX**

"Hi."

She smiled softly. John was off crutches, of course, his arm still bandaged, limping a little, but smiling at her. A blossom of warmth bubbled up inside her; it was good to see someone besides the doctors.

"How's the leg?"

"It's getting there. How 'bout you?"

She shrugged. "Tired."

His lips quirked into a grin. "Besides the headache and fever and pain in your chest and those creepy-ass bruises all over your arms? You're _tired_?"

Elizabeth flushed and looked down. She hadn't wanted him to know everything. But John Sheppard had a habit of finding things out when he wanted to. And the strange bluish bruises mottling her arms weren't helping. Even feeling as if her head was about to explode, she knew how bad they looked, ever since they'd started appearing down her arms earlier that morning. Damn short-sleeved hospital gown.

He was always observant, and paused for a second before asking again, "How are you?"

"I'm okay, John," she insisted, ignoring the dizziness that had begun to bother her occasionally in the past few hours. "Carson's doing everything he can."

He nodded, not believing her. She hadn't seriously expected him to. His gaze burned on her as she stood and walked (a little too slowly) to the entry, chancing to meet his eyes. They surprised her. Instead of his usual easy, boyish grin, John was looking at her with a warmth and seriousness that she had rarely seen.

"You don't have to pretend you're not scared, Elizabeth. It's alright."

Reaching up, he settled a hand on the surface of the force field, feeling the slight tingle as the shimmering ripples pooled around his fingers. She mirrored him, pressing her hand to the clear barrier. Maybe she imagined it, but she was almost sure she could feel the warm gentle pressure, a soft link to the world outside this calm, cool fishtank.

"You should get some rest," she chided him gently, trying to calm her racing mind. "Go. Carson will tell you if anything changes."

Surprisingly, he gave her no struggle. "Take it easy. I'll be back."

He hobbled back down the hallway, and Elizabeth watched him go, sitting back down, staring at her hands. He was right.

She was scared.

**TBC** . . .

**XXXXXXXXXX**

**Author's Note: **I am a little bit in love with Sheppard and Carson (and Rodney too). I blame that for the fact that I felt compelled to write this.

Please review! It's my first SGA fic, and I'd like feedback.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

John indulged in the luxury of a brief shower before falling into bed, asleep almost before his head hit the pillow. And he could swear that he'd just closed his eyes for a second when something woke him.

His eyes flew open, and he cursed, glancing at his clock (had he really slept for five hours? He sure as hell hadn't meant to) before realizing that the insistent buzzing was coming from his earpiece on the table next to his bed. Swearing again, he fumbled for it and tucked it into place, hearing Beckett's voice. "Colonel?"

"What is it?"

"The other two have cleared up and been discharged. It's just Elizabeth now, and she's worse."

John closed his eyes. _Dammit_. "I'll be right there."

**XXXXX**

She was ashen and worn-looking. Her breathing was slow and her face pinched with concentration as she slowly paced the length of the room, as Beckett allowed, to keep her at least nominally functioning.

She was fading. Fast.

"Elizabeth? How are you?"

She swallowed. "Not so good."

Her voice was weak and quiet, and at this point her face was almost as white as her hospital gown. John had read _Dracula_ as a teenager, and now he couldn't help but think that this is what Lucy must have looked like towards the end: white and faint and slipping away from everything. She sat on the edge of her bed very slowly, and he tried to stop thinking about vampires. It was way too eerie when she looked like this.

"What are the doctors saying?" she murmured.

"Nothing concrete just yet. They're still looking," he finished lamely, knowing full well that Elizabeth was more than intelligent enough to catch the real meaning: No, and they're really getting worried.

Oddly enough, she wasn't looking at him with that I Know What You're Really Saying, You Lovably Cheeky Idiot, Why Are You Even Trying To Mess With A Professional Diplomat expression he had come to enjoy so much. She just nodded. "Okay."

John caught a deep breath. He was starting to get a little frightened. She wasn't herself. Elizabeth never accepted bad news without immediately beginning to strategize a dozen ways to end up successful. And she sure as hell never sat around.

"What - Elizabeth, your nose -"

She looked down, dazed, at the slow drip of blood onto the floor, raising a hand to her nose. The deep red on her fingers seemed to confuse her.

"Do you want me to call the doctors?"

She didn't seem to hear him; her wondering gaze was still fixed on her bloody fingers, and she took a deep breath, and then her eyes rolled back as she slid off the bed and crumpled to the floor.

"Elizabeth? Elizabeth!" He slammed his hand against the wall desperately. "Carson, she's passed out!"

Within seconds, nurses were through the scrub room and kneeling beside Elizabeth. "What's wrong with her?"

"I don't know," Carson admitted. "She had a mild fever for an hour, but nothing drastic. This is the first time we've seen bleeding."

"Anything from the database?"

"Still looking." Turning to speak briefly with one of the nurses exiting the sickroom, Carson watched Elizabeth thoughtfully. "She's declining faster."

Minutes later, she was lying in bed, IV in her arm, eyes closed. John couldn't get over how young she looked when she was asleep. She wielded tremendous power with effortless ease; hell, who was he fooling? Even _he_ was a little afraid of her at times. He was a good six inches taller than her, but the simple height advantage had never worked. She was a wall of solid, flinty determination, cool-headed and inventive and intelligent. But now, face soft and smooth, Elizabeth just looked like a little girl.

Carson sat beside him, folding his hands, and regarded John solemnly. "Do you wanna talk?"

"No," John returned shortly. If they needed to talk, then the situation was worse than he'd thought. He was not ready to talk.

"All right." Not surprised in the least, the doctor took a last look at the monitors before standing. "I'm going to talk to the medical team. Let the nurses know if something changes."

**XXXXX**

The steady beep of the machines picked up, rousing him from the gloomy spiral of his current train of thought. "What's happening?"

"She's waking up," a nurse replied. There was a quick hum of orderly activity as doctors and nurses crowded around the monitors, watching the blip of her vital signs, but John noticed the sudden frown that seemed to pass between them as one called for Beckett to return immediately.

"What is it? What's wrong?" he demanded. No one responded; the nurses were hurrying into the scrub room and pulling on clean suits as Beckett came running down the hallway. "Carson, what is it?"

He was interrupted by a strangled cry. Startled, he looked up.

"Oh my _god_ - Elizabeth -"

Her body convulsed violently, shaking the bed, the blanket thrown aside, and then she started to scream. Long, drawn-out screams of ear-piercing agony split the air as she doubled over in pain, clawing feverishly at her arms, ripping out the IV and tearing long scratches across her pale skin. Beckett flinched, glancing at the man beside him. John was watching her, unable to look away. His face was taut with despair, his eyes full of anguish as she screamed in pain and he couldn't do anything.

The nurses rushed into the sickroom and crowded around the bed, trying to wrestle the writhing woman down. John ran a hand through his hair. "What are they doing?"

"Trying to keep her unconscious," Carson muttered as the screaming quieted and the body in the bed lay still. "From those screams I'll wager she hit a 10 on the pain scale. It's cruelty to keep her awake."

John watched through the field as the heavily masked nurses wiped blood from her nose and mouth, vivid scarlet against her stark white skin. God, she was right there, not even fifteen feet away, and he couldn't do anything.

**XXXXXXXXXX**

**Author's Note: **This is pretty harsh Elizabeth-whumping, but relax, I hate character deaths, so I never write them. She'll be fine. And Sheppard/Weir is the reason I got hooked on SGA in the first place, so yup, it's going to be shippy.

Please review. If you do, I will send Rodney McKay to recite Italian poetry to you while leading a troop of penguins in a spirited rendition of Riverdance. Not to be missed!


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Within minutes of Elizabeth's latest attack, Rodney had radioed in for a regular report. The team was informed of Dr. Weir's condition, and immediately began the two-day trek back to the gate. The rest of the city's inhabitants knew only that she had been hospitalized with a serious illness, which sent restless rumors floating through the science labs.

At this point, John flatly refused to leave the hallway outside her room. The nurses didn't seem surprised, and were kind enough to bring him a fairly comfortable chair. He sat and watched the unmoving form on the bed for hours, at length succumbing to an occasional quick doze.

**XXXXX**

"John? John, wake up, lad. Are you sure you don't want a quick sleep in your own quarters?"

"What? No, I just closed my eyes for a second, I'm fine." John frowned in confusion, looking back into the quarantine room, where the nurses were doing something to Elizabeth. "What the hell are they doing in there?"

Beckett didn't want to have to say it, but it had to be said. "The medication is wearing off. When she wakes up, we can't risk the chance of her hurting herself."

"So you're strapping her down? Can't you just keep her unconscious?"

"She's already on morphine. It's not working anymore. Morphine, Vicodin and Codein didn't work. Sedatives aren't working. Nothing is working. The labwork is going to take another few hours -"

"Carson, that's _torture_ -"

"There's nothing I can do, John. We've tried everything."

John turned away abruptly, taking in a long breath. God, he couldn't stand it. Her screams were still ringing in his ears. She lay silently now, faint and fragile against the heavy restraints that strapped her to the bed. How could this be happening? Why couldn't they fix her?

"What's that in her mouth?"

"For her to bite down on." Seeing that John didn't follow, Carson added quietly, "In convulsions like that, she could bite her own tongue off."

He couldn't think about it any more. He just couldn't. "Did you get anything from the database?"

"Nothing that's worked. We've tried a number of the Ancients' experimental treatments from the records, but no success." Carson sighed and slumped against the wall half-heartedly. "I just don't understand it. She's declined so fast. It makes no sense; I've never seen anything progress this quickly."

"Is there anything I can do?"

"You're already doin' it," Carson assured him. "I've officially reported her illness to the interim administrators, and it's been announced through the city. This isn't something to be hidden." He didn't add that the city staff was almost paralyzed with fear; he'd told them the simple truth, that she was in critical condition and the outcome was uncertain.

John, of course, understood the other part Carson hadn't said aloud - in a base like this, the leader was a vital part of every system, in every loop, involved in everything. So if - the worst - did happen, the city needed to be prepared for it. And now they had come to that point. Oh god, how did this happen, Elizabeth? He found himself envying her cool, unflappable demeanor; she may not be Annie Oakley, but she stared down invading ships and imminent disaster, unflinching. John could handle firepower, battles, and most all things that flew or shot, but he couldn't handle standing around waiting. She was the one who was good at that.

_What do I do now, Elizabeth? What do you want me to do?_ He asked silently, getting no response from the motionless body inside the sickroom.

The machines beeped, and Carson took a deep breath. "Her pulse is getting faster. She's waking up." He was silent for a moment. "Colonel, you don't have to stay if -"

"I can't leave."

"I didn't think so." He paused. "I had to ask."

John grimaced in sympathetic pain as her body stiffened, the tired muscles clenching involuntarily as she drifted closer to consciousness. _Don't wake up, Elizabeth. Please. Don't. _But her eyes slowly opened and went wide, and he clenched his teeth as she took in a deep breath.

His mouth went dry as he watched helplessly. Elizabeth was wracked with convulsions, her entire body writhing in agony, mouth open in a silent scream as she wrenched violently at the heavy restraints. Sweat beaded her forehead and blood streamed from her nose, and her head slammed back against the pillow as she bit down on the thick leather gag, blood smearing across her white face.

Carson grit his teeth - what could he do? She was already on too much sedative, and it still wasn't working - and chanced a look at Sheppard. John was standing silently, teeth clenched, jaw tight, eyes glimmering with unshed tears as he watched Elizabeth's horrible suffering, his frustration tangible as he ran shaky hands through his unruly hair.

She had bitten clean through the heavy gag, and it fell away from her mouth as her screams pierced the air again - horrible, choking screaming, full-throated and agonized, until John had heard enough. She was dying and he _couldn't_ just watch like this. No.

He ran to the door, ignoring the pain in his still-healing ankle.

"John, what the hell are you doing? Get out of there _now_ -"

"No." He didn't stop.

"John! You could get yourself infected!" Carson yelled. "She might still be contagious!"

"I don't care!"

Before the medics could stop him, John had pushed past the scrub room and into the sickroom.

"John!"

"She's _not_ going to die alone in there! Not like this!"

Ignoring Beckett and the startled nurses outside, he ran to her bedside and leaned on the edge, unsure exactly what to do, how to help her.

But to his surprise, the screams had stopped. Looking down in amazement, John was startled to see her beginning to calm. Her body, thin and warm, had stilled, the violent convulsions ending. She lay pale and still, drenched in sweat, but no longer screaming. He gently touched her bloody face; her eyes were open but unfocused.

"Elizabeth?" he whispered. "Elizabeth, can you hear me?"

She didn't move, so John took his chances. Reaching down, he carefully loosened the heavy straps around her wrists, taking one of her hands gently in his. "Elizabeth?"

She blinked, and her eyes slowly came into focus, meeting his for just a moment before she let out a deep sigh and fell back into a deep sleep.

Outside, the medical team watched in stunned disbelief. "What just happened? What the hell was that?"

A nurse shook her head. "Incredible. It's like he stopped it hims-"

"That's _it!"_ Beckett yelled, practically glowing as he hastened to explain to the startled team, speaking so fast he almost stumbled over his words. "The illness was last reported on Skalvi just before their first visit from the Ancients. At first I thought the Ancients must have used technology to heal them and we just didn't know what, but it wasn't their technology, it was _them_. Once the Skalvii were exposed to the Ancients, the disease vanished. Don't you see? Colonel Sheppard and Dr. Weir were exposed at the same time, but the colonel has the Ancient gene, so he was already immune. And the disease began to affect the doctor when the colonel left again. And _then_ once we put her into isolation, and she was removed from the presence of the Ancient gene entirely, only then did the symptoms start to accelerate more drastically. Now that she's in the presence of the gene again, see how rapidly it works? She's already improving."

"But others in the city have the gene too, Doctor," one of the orderlies asked, confused. "She was near a number of them in the infirmary. Why didn't that help?"

"Sheppard has a more potent presence of it. He might be the only person around here who has enough to have any effect."

"Are you sure?"

"Aye! Look at her!" Sure enough, Elizabeth had calmed. Now freed from her restraints, she was leaning heavily against John, her face smoothed. Even her nosebleed had begun to dry up. Her eyes were closed, and her head rested limply on his shoulder. Carson slumped back in his seat, relieved. "John, how's she doing?"

"Still in pain, but I think the worst is over," John replied, gently wiping the blood away from her mouth and nose with one of the unused towels. There was a certain tenderness in the gesture, an unusual departure from his normal gruff demeanor as he smoothed the damp hair from her sweaty face, easing her gently back onto the pillow.

**XXXXXXXXXX**

**Author's Note**: Thank you sincerely to everyone who has reviewed; I truly appreciate it. Please enjoy, keep reading, and the review button is ready when you are!


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

The steady hum and beep of the monitors blurred into background noise as Elizabeth continued to sleep. John watched intently from his place beside her, noticing every minute twitch of her eyelids, but altogether the deep slumber was less deathly than it had been. She was off the heavy sedatives they'd tried before, taking only a relatively mild drug that let her body rest more naturally. He frowned, studying her thin hand in his. He'd never seen her hands so still. They were always moving; typing, adjusting her earpiece, thumbing through reams of paperwork, tapping impatiently on a nearby surface - which was generally the only way to catch her being nervous - but now her busy hands didn't move; the only motion he could see was the slow, even rise and fall of her chest.

Tracing the lines of her hand absent-mindedly, John paused soberly as his fingers brushed the raw skin that had been burned by the leather restraints. The blood on her face was washed away, and bandages covered the long welts in her arms, but the livid rashes on her wrists forced him to remember how badly she'd hurt herself during those violent spasms. And that was something he really didn't want to do. No, John Sheppard had had quite enough of those particular images recently, both waking and sleeping, and chose to concentrate instead on the moderately less chalky complexion, slightly parted lips, and steady breathing, which all signaled improvement.

**XXXXX**

Her first conscious perception was sound. Gentle noise pervaded the blackness in a soothing hum, and for a while she simply let it ease her mind out of the void. As sensation seeped fuzzily back through her body, she felt the dull pull of soreness in muscles she couldn't even place, let alone name.

The empty blackness faded slowly to a lighter shade, and the noises gained definition. Two separate types, she thought. A low hum, and a steady beep. Machines? Or maybe muffled voices? A sudden rush of sensation left her too tired to worry about it, and the air on her skin was colder than she would have liked. Warm pressure soothed one of her hands, something soft, but slightly rough, but a good feeling.

A slow flood of awareness swirled through her mind, and Elizabeth slowly tried to open her eyes, adjusting as she encountered the bright lights in the room. Seeing John staring at her hand, held gently in his, she tried to speak, but his name came out as a silent puff of air. His hand was warm on hers, so she squeezed against it. He seemed to feel the movement, and looked up, and as his eyes met hers, a rush of incredible relief washed over his haggard face.

"Elizabeth?" he breathed. "Carson, Carson! She's back."

Seeing her awake and watching them, Carson smiled. "How're ye feeling, love?"

Elizabeth swallowed slowly through a raspy throat and took another try at speaking. "Sore." Her voice sounded thready and soft, but her eyes were clearer now, following movement around her, which was a reassuring improvement.

"That's nothing to worry about," the doctor assured her, poking a straw into a water cup and handing it to John, who put it to her lips. She accepted it gratefully, the water cooling her rough throat. "You'll be a wee bit achy for a few days, and it's possible that your chest may hurt again, but it appears that the worst is over, so long as we continue treatment."

"You found a treatment?"

"I know this sounds unorthodox, but quite frankly, Elizabeth, the cure is John." He briefly outlined the diagnosis. "Seeing as he's still unaffected, and you're already better, I'm going to order him to stay with you for the time being."

"So we have to stay here?" she asked quietly.

"Just for the next three or four days. If your progress continues, I'll release you both, though you'll have to stay near each other until you've finished recovering completely. Any questions?"

John shook his head, glancing at Elizabeth, who was still too tired to talk much. "I think we're good for now, Doc. Thanks."

Carson nodded, patting her hand affectionately. "It's good to see you doing better, lassie. Ye had us a mite worried," he grinned, leaving the room.

"Do you want more water?" John asked. She shook her head, so he set the cup aside. She sucked in a long breath suddenly, face pale; he was at her side instantly. "'Lizabeth? What's wrong?"

Letting out a long sigh, she slowly relaxed, blinking again. "It's all right. Carson said my chest would hurt for a while."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm fine, John." She settled back into her pillow. "Where's the rest of your team?"

John smiled. A grudging admission of pain and she was quickly back in leader mode.

"Rodney called in a few hours ago, and they're coming back as we speak. They were two days out, so it's gonna be awhile before they're back, but they all said to tell you they hope you get better, and they'll come to see you as soon as they're in Atlantis."

She nodded silently, absorbing the information. The drugs were starting to work again, and she could feel the slow, warm wash of sleep tugging heavily at her mind and body.

"You've gotta admit it's funny." At her puzzled look, John grinned. "I really _am_ the magic cure this time."

She smiled weakly. "Instead of giving me grey hairs, you're getting rid of them for once."

"Hey now!" he complained happily. If she was up to being cheeky, she really was getting better.

A nurse came in, beaming as she flicked a penlight into Elizabeth's eyes. Everyone was happy now that the nightmare was over. "I hear you're feeling better today, Doctor?"

"She's back up to smart-ass retorts, nurse. She's fine," John informed her solemnly, earning a faint attempt at a glare from the woman in question, regardless of the fact that she could hardly keep her eyes open.

Elizabeth Recovering turned out to be very different from Elizabeth Administrating. The main difference was the simple fact that she was exhausted; that, of course, meant that her natural independent, workaholic tendencies were forced to fade. John flatly refused to let her do anything for herself. Against her faint protests, he carried her to the bathroom, waited outside, and carried her back to bed; he combed her hair; he held the water glass to her lips; and instead of letting her even hold a book, he coolly informed her that if she wanted books, he was going to read them to her. Elizabeth, of course, wouldn't have been herself if she hadn't put up at least a nominal protest, but after he let her try once to stand and she swayed dangerously for a few seconds before sinking back down onto the bed in exhaustion, she gave up for the time being and let him tuck her back in before she promptly dozed off again.

Surprisingly, though, she didn't seem to mind too much. She'd never admit it to him, but every muscle in her body still ached, and most of the time she could hardly keep her eyes open. Seeing as his presence alone let her recover, she unconsciously grew acclimated to his touch, even reaching for his hand when pain flared up again, though John was sure she'd never admit to it later. She couldn't sleep unless John was near, Carson noticed with amused interest. He had a curtain put up outside the room the first time he stopped by to find Elizabeth curled up contentedly in John's arms, sound asleep, as he absently stroked her hair. Why bother them? If they needed a bit of privacy, he was more than willing to oblige. The poor woman had been through enough.

**XXX**

On day two of their stay in the aquarium (as he mentally dubbed it), John's team returned and immediately came to see them. Teyla and Ronon stopped in at the same time, greeting them warmly from behind the force field. The visit was brief but very pleasant, and John was glad to see a little color returning to Elizabeth's face as she smiled at the visitors.

Half an hour after they left, Rodney made a visit.

"Elizabeth? Elizabeth! Oh my god, I was so worried. Are you all right?" Rodney babbled anxiously.

"I'm fine, Rodney," she smiled. The man could be a royal pain, and more often than not was incomprehensible, but underneath the surface he was truly a good person. "Carson says I'll be better in a few days."

"So John, you're not bothered by this bug at all? That's odd."

Sheppard shook his head. "Nope. Actually, Carson says it's only contagious among scientists at this point."

"That's ridiculous," Rodney scoffed. When John didn't crack a smile, Rodney stopped laughing and went a little pale. "You're not serious. Are you serious?"

Sheppard shrugged. "Well, you do get exposed to more dangerous amounts of radiation, elements, electricity and all, over in the labs. Something about the disease attacks the immune system, and if yours is already weakened by outside elements -"

Rodney blanched and slowly began to back up. "I'll . . . be right back." He all but ran.

Smiling at his handiwork, John looked down at Elizabeth to find her shaking her head at him. "What?"

"Why do you do that to him?"

"It's just so easy."

She tried not to laugh, her chest still sore, but failed miserably as Rodney's voice floated in from down the hallway. "Are you _sure?_ My throat has been a little sore, and I've been noticing a slight tremor in my left hand recently - no, Carson, I mean it, are you sure you don't want to just check? . . ."

"He's going to be angry at you," she warned him, to which John just grinned.

"He'll get over it. He usually does. 'Sides, it's not my fault he's so gullible." He yawned and stretched back in his chair. "How are you feeling today?"

"Tired. All I want to do is sleep," she groused, impatient with her own weakness.

"That's the idea of recovering." Seeing Rodney still a ways away pestering the doctors, John spoke softly. "Why were you crying last night?"

Elizabeth flushed hotly, but there was no use denying it. She had honestly thought he was asleep, his arms warm around her, and tears had streamed down her face silently in the darkness of the quiet room.

She didn't answer. He didn't let it go, leaning forward to take hold of her hand. "Elizabeth, why? Is something wrong? Does something hurt?"

She glanced down, a little embarrassed. John, of course, picked up immediately. "Did your chest hurt again?"

"No."

"What was it?"

"I just - " she pursed her lips, choosing her words - "I've never felt pain like that before. I didn't think anything could hurt that much."

"I'm so sorry -"

"I honestly hoped that I was dying," she murmured. "When I woke up with that thing in my mouth and I couldn't move. I wanted to die just so the pain would end." She glanced back up at him, a little embarrassed. "Sometimes I just can't get away from it. I was frightened."

"If that ever happens again, I don't care if I'm asleep or across the city in a coma. You tell me." He met her eyes, his voice gentle but firm. "Wake me up, drag me in, I don't care. Okay?"

She nodded, feeling less foolish than she had.

John watched her, sighing internally. She really was improving, in spite of her constant exhaustion and sleeping every few hours, but last night he had woken beside her in the dark to hear soft, muffled sniffling and feel warm tears dampening his shirt. Elizabeth hadn't seemed to be in physical pain, so he hadn't done anything, figuring she might need a good cry, and he had been waiting to talk to her about it.

"So we're good?" he prodded, perceiving that the emotional spill was over for now.

"Yes." The energy from the pleasant excitement of seeing John's team was beginning to ebb, and once again Elizabeth could feel herself getting drowsy again. "John?" she murmured, reality starting to blur into the back of her eyelids.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Why are you being so nice?"

He gave a cheeky grin. "Just saving up points for the next time I do something really stupid."

**XXXXXXXXXX**

**Author's Note: **Thank you to everyone who has reviewed.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Elizabeth continued to improve, and within a few days Carson agreed to let her go back to her own quarters. After a quick exam in which the doctor pronounced himself satisfied with her progress, John took her arm and escorted her down the hallway. She was just glad to be able to walk again, though the short distance to the transporter and then to her room took most of her strength. The minute her doors closed behind her, she sank onto the bed with a sigh of relief that she couldn't suppress.

"Anything you need?" John asked, glancing through the books near her bed. Shakespeare, Jane Austen, John Steinbeck, Dumas in French, Charlotte Bronte, Kafka in German, Chaucer . . . and something that looked suspiciously like chicklit. Elizabeth Weir and chicklit? No way. He didn't recognize it, but was pretty sure _Bridget Jones' Diary_ wasn't in the running for the Nobel prize for literature.

Apparently solitaire wasn't her only form of recreation.

She shook her head. "I'm just tired."

"That's fine." Deciding to chance it, John carefully pulled out_Bridget Jones_, scanning the cover dubiously as he settled into a chair. "I'll be here." Opening to page one, he smiled at her smugly. "Reading. A book."

**XXX**

Two hours later, John closed the book and smothered the urge to laugh. That was not a book than he would ever have pictured Elizabeth Weir, Ph.D., reading voluntarily. Sex, alcohol, cigarettes and more sex. Hmph. No wonder it was popular.

As he set the book aside, he glanced up to find her watching him with bright eyes. "I didn't realize you were awake. How'd you sleep?"

"Fine." She saw the book beside him and smiled. "How was the book?"

"This is girly trash, Elizabeth. How can you read this stuff?"

"It's funny," she shrugged. "Sometimes it's nice to have a little mindless entertainment."

"I guess," he shrugged. "How are you feeling? Are you sore?"

"A little," she mumbled, wincing as she tried to stretch her legs.

"You should take a hot shower. It'll ease up your muscles."

He was right, so Elizabeth obediently headed for her bathroom and pulled on her robe. She reached up to pull the elastic band out and let her hair down, but let out a sharp gasp of pain as the joints in her arms ached in protest. She could barely reach her shoulders. The doctors had lowered her pain medication to a bare minimum, and sleeping in one position for two hours had given her body time to settle. On second thought, maybe it would have been a better idea to shower and _then_ take a nap.

A second attempt hurt worse than the first, and she leaned on the sink, breathing deeply as she bit her lip to ignore the tight pain that was pulsing through her shoulders. There was no way she was getting her hair down. Not by herself.

Dammit, she had really thought moving back to her room meant she could be more independent. But . . . "John?"

He was at the door in a second. "Yeah?"

"Can you get the band out of my hair? My arms are a little sore."

Surprisingly, he just nodded, no teasing remarks. "Sure." He was gentle, too, tugging carefully at the tightly-wound loops before her hair settled around her face.

"Is that better?"

"Yes, thanks."

"You planning to wash your hair?"

She stopped. Yes, she had been planning on doing just that, but now that she thought about it, if she couldn't even reach her own head, this might not work so well. "Well, I was -"

"Would you like me to help?"

Elizabeth was surprised to find herself suddenly a little shy. Why? Her rational mind argued that there was nothing to worry about, but for some reason part of her suddenly felt skittish. Ignoring it - what was wrong with her, anyway? - she accepted his offer gratefully.

Accordingly, after finishing her shower and wrapping herself in her robe, she called John in and he set to work. He was as protective as always, bringing her a chair so she didn't have to stand in front of the sink, and asking multiple times if the water was too hot or too cold. Finally satisfied that she was comfortable, he sat her down and poured water over her head.

It had been years since someone had washed her hair for her, and within minutes Elizabeth had been lulled into a daze of utter relaxation. The sensation of warm hands scrubbing her hair was about as perfect as anything could get, and at this one moment, she might possibly have agreed to un-write her prized doctoral thesis and give back her Ph.D. if it meant she could stay this comfortable forever.

"Hey, you still awake?"

John's voice managed to penetrate the warm, soothing fog of _mmmmmm_ surrounding her tired mind, and she realized she needed to respond. "Yes."

His throaty chuckle brought a faint smile to her lips. "Sure you are." His hands continued to massage her scalp, dragging her back into hazy comfort as her tired mind went haywire. John had been the perfect nurse, she had to admit. Stripped of his normal cocky bravado - which she enjoyed, though she'd never admit it to anyone, least of all to him - he had proven himself to be more gentle and attentive than she would have imagined.

He paused for a second, setting one hand on the exposed skin of her neck, and that was when Elizabeth's mind betrayed her and asked a question that was specifically off-limits - or would have been, if she hadn't been so tired and so relaxed and John's hands hadn't been so warm.

_Would he be a good lover?_

The thought slipped past her mental barrier before she could stop it, and suddenly Elizabeth's face went hot, because she _never_ thought about that kind of thing with him and never would, but now the damage was done and all she could think was _would he? _And his hands weren't helping. John was much too gentle and right now he was using far too much skill as he slowly massaged her scalp, and before she could stop it another thought slipped out. _He could do a lot with those hands, couldn't he?_

Taking a deep breath, Elizabeth tried to ignore the hot flush creeping up her face and forced her wayward mind to behave itself. _Stop it_. She had barely been out of quarantine for half a day, walking a hundred feet felt like running a marathon, she couldn't stay awake for more than four hours at a time, but she was thinking like a horny teenager. _What is wrong with you, Elizabeth Weir? Cut it out._

**XXX**

The art of washing someone else's hair was not as simple as it looked, but John was fairly pleased with his success. The two main objectives had been accomplished; her hair was clean and the bathroom was not flooded. Plus, Elizabeth wasn't complaining. Of course, she was probably smart enough to keep her eyes closed from the soap. But she seemed half-asleep anyway.

He finished rinsing the soap from her hair and ruffled it with a towel, settling it around her shoulders before stepping back. "There you go. All clean."

"Thanks."

John glanced up, catching her eyes in the mirror, and stopped short. Her face was flushed, and her expression unreadable, but for just a second he swore she was staring at him with a look of pure animal hunger clouding her eyes, and he almost started in absolute shock, but before he could be sure he'd really seen it she had looked away and was rubbing her hair with the towel, avoiding his eyes again.

"I'll - I'll be right outside," he offered lamely, beating a hasty retreat from the suddenly-way-too-crowded bathroom. As the door shut again behind him, he dropped into his chair and stared at the floor.

_What the hell just happened?_

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**_  
_


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